


Waterlogged

by indigospacehopper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, He's very sleepy, John-centric, M/M, Pre-Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock cares about him, Sleep, Sleepy Cuddles, Stairs, prejohnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 01:22:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6100198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigospacehopper/pseuds/indigospacehopper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson's been at work all day, and is absolutely shattered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waterlogged

Sleep clung to him like a limpet on a rock, eyelids pushing themselves down as though they were trapped under the great waves rolling above, forced into closure by the weight of the day. The socks inside his shoes were comparable to sodden sand; the thick sludge that stretched across the shoreline of cold winter beaches, making walking far more trouble than it was perhaps worth. Each step John took has heavy and stiff. All he wanted to do was sleep.

Beneath him the floorboards of the stairs creaked quietly. Usually they were loud, cracking so badly that John feared they'd soon break under the torrent of police, clients, and God knows who else climbed the staircase. Now however, they barely made a sound, too absorbed in the night to risk waking anyone up. The tumultuous applause they gave when Sherlock thundered up them as they congratulated him another successful case were silent for now. Rather than boosting John’s flatmates ego, they were soft, and slow in their sounds as the flat settled. 

Three. He thought, pressing his foot against one of the bottom steps and hoisting himself up. Fourteen more to go, and then sleep. Okay? Fourteen. You can do this. 

Of course, seventeen was the correct number of steps to his and Sherlock's flat, but not to John’s bedroom. He reasoned that so long as he reached the landing, he'd be more than grateful enough to collapse onto the sofa. It was more comfortable than his bed, anyway. The thought of it dampened his thoughts with simplistic longing; a semi-reward in his opinion; the harshness of the day having dried him of all creativity and usual abstract thoughts. 

The surgery had been overrun by people of all illnesses, many of whom had forgotten what a hospital was, and thus decided that the local GP was their best source of remedy. John had spent a good half hour explaining to a worried mother that her son was probably going to lose his finger unless he was taken to a hospital soon. She wouldn't have it. 

“But his finger is usually fine,” she had scorned, challenging John. “It's never given him any trouble before. There's no reason for it to be bleeding this badly now. He's had no previous symptoms.”

By this stage, John had finished bandaging the young boy’s finger. He was only a small lad, with mousy brown hair and bright green eyes that told John he was only too aware of his mum’s idiocy. The boy rolled his eyes with every stupid statement his mum made, making John smile to himself. At least the kid had some sense. 

“Mrs Kinver, there are no symptoms of clumsiness, other than tripping up steps and being prone to injury. Your son’s finger is bleeding because he decided to play, unsupervised, with a saw,” John bit out, making sure the woman could understand whose fault it actually was. She quickly grasped it, and clenched her teeth in response. “Now I'm going to call an ambulance or a paramedic, which is what you should've done in the first place.” 

The mother had left, pushing her son into the hands of the paramedics and muttering to herself about how she was going to send in a formal complaint about “... That incompetent Doctor Watson, thinking he can tell me how to raise my son…” but John didn't mind. It wouldn't be the first and it probably wouldn't be the last. He'd given the boy a lollypop, though. Poor compensation for having such a shit mother. 

He wondered if they had been able to save the poor kid’s finger or not. He hoped so. Maybe he'd be able to give his Mum the finger in a few years time when he knew what it meant. Or maybe even before. John had been tempted to do it himself as he watched her retreating back. 

The last few steps were infinitely more troublesome to climb than the first, and John found himself overrun by an impenetrable current trying to force him back down. He clung onto the bannister like it was the anchor and he was the ship, rocking forwards and backwards against the sleep-deprived waves. Eighteen, he told himself firmly. No. Not eighteen. Possibly twelve? He ran a hand through his hair, his movements sluggish and his hair unwilling to cooperate, tangling against his fingers as though it was seaweed. Eighteen is wrong. That'd mean… 

He scratched the back of his head. If he was on the eighteenth step, then surely he'd bypassed the sofa altogether and had somehow ended up climbing the stairs to his own room. That was his reasoning, at any rate, so he powered on. As he climbed, his thoughts drifted towards another patient. This one was really something. If he hadn't have been prescribing her with her medication and taking her blood pressure, John would have most definitely asked her out. She was stunning. 

With a set square jaw and harsh features, the flow of her shiny brunette locks somehow managed to outweigh the boldness of her facial features, and with that every single piece of her physical appearance was balanced. It was all John could do to invite her out for dinner that night, having decided that she was exactly his type. She was beautiful. 

But he didn't. His most recent succession of girlfriends had all ended in failure, what with his hectic schedules (when he wasn't at work he was busy running around with Sherlock), and his appalling inability to withstand any normal conversation, most dates fell flat on their face. It had reached the point where he just didn't care strongly enough to even attempt a new relationship, because really, what was the point?

That being said, he would have made an exception for that woman. 

She was clever, witty, funny… She walked through the door and John was immediately captivated. He couldn't take her eyes off her; clinging onto her every word as though she was a siren singing him a song - even if that song was about a rash on her lower back. Perhaps it was unprofessional to think such things of a patient. Certainly, if he'd have had similar thoughts about one of his and Sherlock’s clients, Sherlock would have given him hell for it.

“She's a client, John,” he'd almost definitely say. “Don't let physical appearances cloud your judgement. Look, you can tell purely from the lapel of her jacket she's a compulsive cheater. Is that really someone you'd want to be with? Don't ask her out on a date, and if you dare mention Angelo’s to her I'll be forced to throw my violin at your head.”

Maybe not that last bit. 

Although last time he had taken a date to Angelo’s, Sherlock had been more than a little bit pissed off. So had Angelo himself, come to think of it, but the only explanation as to why Sherlock had thrown a tantrum and refused to talk to anyone for a week that John could come up with, was that Angelo’s was his favourite stake-out spot. He was hardly going to appreciate John taking someone on a date there, especially if it suddenly gained popularity and was no longer available for one of Sherlock’s escapades as a result. But as far as John was concerned that was the only reason why Sherlock may object. 

He took another hazardous step. Beneath him, the distance his foot had to travel from one step to the next was cloudy and difficult to make out. The dimensions were obscured by a blanket of weariness churned up; general tired confusion lapped at his every thought, brushing by his ankles as the haziness swept backwards and obscured his vision entirely. On more than one occasion the thought of Sherlock sulking because John was in Angelo’s with someone else was wiped cleanly from his mind through fear of tumbling over backwards.

He plunged his foot down, colliding the sole of his shoe with the floorboards and feeling it sink into the waterlogged sand. It sunk lower, so much so that soon enough he was up to his knee in the thick shingle, frowning heavily as his kneecap collided heavily with a barnacle covered rock.

His whole knee cracked under the weight of his body, pushing him along the seafloor and further out into the ocean. He grappled with the rest of the rocks as the current pulled him back under, so much so that he was soon miles away from the destination. Where had the landing gone? He'd worked so hard on finding the shore.

Water seeped through his ears and trickled into his brain; the sleep he’d been fighting off all day seeping down his throat; drowning all conscious thought as black haziness pooled into the corners of his mind, spilling out across the plains of conscious thought and flooding it completely with an almighty storm surge, blocking out the sunlight and setting up a water barricade between John and the world. 

Then, and quite to his own confusion, he was floating. Strong waves lifted him carefully off the cold, hard, sea bed and stopped abruptly as John gasped at the pain in his knee. He was being carried bridal style back towards the shore, steady waves held onto him carefully, stopping him from slipping back down to the dark depths of the hallway. 

“Nearly there,” a low voice said, sounding equally as tired as John felt, giving away to a loud, wind-like yawn. They started moving again, with John floating along peacefully, still with his eyes shut as he felt the gentle rock of the waves, and the soothing, repetitive thump beating inside of his newly found transport.

He mumbled quietly to himself, relaying the thoughts that had been weighing him down like an anchor all day, deciding to deposit them at the bottom of the ocean where they belonged. Occasionally there came a gentle breeze, carrying words of: “that's nice,” “how interesting,” and “John, I really don’t care about your ‘thing for brunettes’. Be quiet or I’ll leave you on the stairs.” 

All John could do was smile and nod, being lulled back to sleep by the calming heartbeat of the sea and it's rocking waves; carrying him back to tranquility. 

\--

John yawned heavily as the waves deposited him. As soon as he was dropped, he buried his face in the pillow, sighing and breathing it in. His body sunk into the mattress of soft sand and it dipped by his hip, another figure joining him. Had he been washed up too?

No chance. He was too warm. And soft. And comfortable. 

John rolled over and wrapped his arms around him, burying his face into his saviour’s shoulder.

“Go to sleep. If I start fidgeting, just kick me or something,” the voice says. “And if you’ve got a problem with sleeping with me then you’re welcome to go on the sofa, but the radiator’s broken and I didn’t feel like carrying you to your own room.” 

John merely mumbled, hugging Sherlock happily as he smiled sleepily, finally being able to drift off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I've had writers block for about three months, and this took so long to write. So if anyone has any advice, that'd be brilliant. Feedback is also completely welcome. 
> 
> Thanks :)


End file.
